LET others prate of Greece and Rome, <br /> And towns where they may never be, <br />The muse should wander nearer home. <br /> My country is enough for me; <br /> Her wooded hills that watch the sea, <br />Her inland miles of springing corn, <br /> At Macedon or Barrakee— <br />I love the land where I was born. <br />On Juliet smile the autumn stars <br /> And windswept plains by Winchelsea, <br />In summer on their sandy bars <br /> Her rivers loiter languidly. <br /> Where singing waters fall and flee <br />The gullied ranges dip to Lorne <br /> With musk and gum and myrtle tree— <br />I love the land where I was born. <br /> <br />The wild things in her tangles move <br /> As blithe as fauns in Sicily, <br />Where Melbourne rises roof by roof <br /> The tall ships serve her at the quay, <br /> And hers the yoke of liberty <br />On stalwart shoulders lightly worn, <br /> Where thought and speech and prayer are free— <br />I love the land where I was born. <br /> <br />Princes and lords of high degree, <br /> Smile, and we fling you scorn for scorn, <br />In hope and faith and memory <br /> I love the land where I was born.<br /><br />Enid Derham<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-ballade-of-home/
